


deceits

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Lavellan/Solas Angst (Dragon Age), Lemon, Masturbation, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Pining Solas (Dragon Age), Public Masturbation, Sexual Solas (Dragon Age), Sexy Solas (Dragon Age), Shame Wank, Smut, Solas (Dragon Age) Angst, Solas Smut Saturday, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21970993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: And he refused, firmly, to allow his moral mind to protest as the heat haloed in his heart, letting his eyes glaze over as the words she’d spoken rearranged in his mind into a flirtation...
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Female Inquisitor, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Fen'Harel/Lavellan, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	deceits

**“Doubtless, then, I exist, since I am deceived” (Descartes, Discourse on Method and the Meditations)**

\--

Had he, in how many years, in how many decades, in how many _centuries_ , experienced pain like this sidling between his ears - knocking against the inside of his head, first one side, then the other? Had he ever been assaulted by such a cacophony of noise?

Yes, his memory reasoned. You have fought wars. You have slipped among battlefields, you have heard the fell chorus of dying men.

_No_ , his present mind groaned. _Nothing has ever been this loud._

People, everywhere. Cullen barked at young soldiers in the yard. Masked merchants flooded in through the gates, petitioning for one of the central stands for their wares. Whinnies from the stables echoed through the wooden door and down the hallway to his study. And when he had lifted his hand to mark the sky, the paint finally mixed just right, the brush pliant and his vision for the mural clear in his mind, the sudden ignition of the smoldering core she had brought to the researchers above had filled the rotunda with raging fire and a blast of sound that had set the birds screeching, and Dorian had yelled something about _the books_ , and his hand had slipped and he’d streaked a stain of ocher through the mountaintops, and he had snarled a curse and thrown down the paints and stalked from the tower. Now he stood above this infuriating press of people — fighting, bartering — human voices and the sounds of swords everywhere.

He leaned on his elbows, head pounding. Then the ache redoubled, and he tried pressing his forehead to the cool stones of the rampart, feet shifting, knees bending right and left, trying to rediscover balance and an ease for the ache in his skull.

When was the last moment he had slept in peace?

The couch in the rotunda had been a familiar enough place to rest when Skyhold quieted for the night.

But lately, there had been no quiet. At any hour. In any corner of the stronghold. For weeks.

The cool of the stones did nothing to ease the rippling pain cascading from his forehead down to the base of his skull.

He looked up and saw her then. The Master of Horses was at Pangara’s side. Both of them were stroking the neck of an overlarge dun he’d yet to greet, but it was she he watched as she slid her palm down the creature’s flank, and said something to Master Dennet, and Dennet nodded, and for all the noise and chaos and movement around them he perceived her - clear - a steadiness bright in her spirit that anchored him like a root in cool soil.

She bent and chose a carrot from the pail.

Compassion — Cole — at his side. “Dreamer disturbed, desires —”

“Cole, no,” Solas turned and moved up to the highest level of the ramparts, twisting the Veil before and behind his step. Compassion did not follow.

Desires.

Shame twisted through him.

Every day. And, though he had resolved to ignore the urges, yes… every night. Desires. He had encouraged her in Haven, after all, just to let her know he saw her. Appreciated her… Had expected absolutely no reciprocation.

Had been sorely, if delightfully, mistaken.

He had known no peace from her since, and she did not know how it tormented him.

What had begun as a wandering impulse in an easy dream had brought him, hurtling, into the… suddenly very apparent reality of this world.

And unless he was prepared to debase himself, sully the ethical underpinnings of his presence in her life and choose to debase her, too, to take her, to ravish the soft press of her body beneath his own…. He knew he would have no relief.

The clanging was quieter from so much further below.

He paced down the ruin of this section of the wall. Finally, a place he could rest. A moment of relative quiet, the drums of voices at the very least distant, if not silent.

He turned his face up to a brace of cold wind slamming down the mountainside.

The pounding in his head had receded, somewhat.

Sleep, his body insisted, finally removed from the crowd, and he slid down the sandy mandolin cracks of the wall.

He closed his eyes.

_She bent and chose a carrot from the -_

He wrenched up. His eyes flew open.

Stupefied, irritated, groggy, his body aching.

… Cock rising, filling, pressing under his breeches…

Solas put his face in both hands, moaned, and then, like an animal, _and it had been so many nights, facedown on the couch, trying to put it from his mind, trying to find the reprieve of dreams, and he was so tired, and he just wanted to be allowed to sleep,_ he placed one palm flat against the rise in the soft leathers at his crotch, and rubbed.

The vision rose back to his mind immediately.

But it was not her bent over in the stableyard.

It was her in her brown leggings. Bending over the table in his study. Her hips pressed against the wood. Her fingers traced the words in one of his books - a book on the vallaslin written by some Orlesian scholar. No doubt her attention had been drawn by the explicit and slightly offensive depiction of the clan celebrating the mark-day on the open page. And he had stepped closer, to hear her sounding out the letters.

It was a stolen moment, one he had not been meant to witness.

She missed an inflection here or there. And then he realized that she missed a letter. Noticed she missed more. She spoke the garbled words from what she recognized, then repeated the phrase she’d managed to parse and filled in gaps with what she thought might fit, based on her knowledge of the spoken language.

He had tried to turn, to preserve her privacy. But she had heard him.

And she had only turned and locked her gaze to him, looked at him. Waited for him to explain himself.

She had been, it became apparent, willing to wait until the walls around them rotted back into the earth.

“I have disturbed you, Inquisitor,” he’d said, softly.

“Yes,” she had agreed, simply. She had looked back to the book, then looked back up at him. “Yes, you have.”

“Apologies. I will come back at a more convenient time,” he’d said, but she’d come towards him and she’d put the book in his hands, and she’d opened it back to that page, and she had looked up at him, and she had asked, “Is this what you think of us?,” and he had thought she’d be embarrassed, but he was the one suddenly hot with defensive reproach and -

He pulled his hand away from his lap. _What was he thinking?_ He could not do this to her. Could not take a memory of her fire and pick through it for the curve of her ass bent over a table.

_No_ , he repeated firmly to himself, _No, he could not._

“No,” he had said, “No I do not.”

And she had quirked a brow up at him, and looked back down at the picture, and then looked back up at him. And the way she looked at him: amused, that gentle way her anger lurked, absorbing hints of what could cut deepest - he saw her study him in this way. Although he’d smoothed his expression, pure reflex, still he was not certain if she’d managed to see to some vulnerability within him when her next action had been, bewilderingly, to just look down at his hands and pull the cuffs of his sweater down his wrists. Right, then left.

“Good,” she’d said, and had turned and climbed the steps. He’d stood with the book in his hands. His heart pounding. A mix of irritation and confusion souring his thoughts. He’d heard her open and close the door to De Fer’s landing.

Solas pressed his head back against the ramparts. Now he felt both the shame of almost giving in to the sordid reduction of her person to a raunchy representation, and the shame of how thinking about her looking up at him, thinking about her brushing his wrists, remembering her stepping close as she’d placed the book with that illustration in his hands - of how these memories had thickened his length, had built the press against his breeches to an urgent, gross pressure.

His headache was back.

He realized his jaw was clenched tight. He pinched the bridge of his nose, futilely, and tried to discipline his mind to stillness, his body to restraint.

_Restraint_ , rose the thought, and he pictured, absolutely against his better judgement and in a cascade of unremitting debauchery, all the ways he could restrain her, and he groaned, and his hand fell back to his crotch, and he rubbed himself over his clothes. And he refused, firmly, to allow his moral mind to protest as the heat haloed in his heart, letting his eyes glaze over as the words she’d spoken rearranged in his mind into a flirtation, _“Is this what you think of me?”_ “No.” _“Good.”_ What had she meant, when she’d just adjusted his sleeves? _Good._ The word played riotous in his thoughts, echoing louder and louder, _“Good. Good. Good.”_ And the tone shifted, still her voice but speaking in ways he’d never heard from her before but that he wanted to hear, wanted to hear so badly. He thrust his hand beneath the band of his breeches and spat into his left palm, then brought his fist around his cock, moistening from tip to half, twisting his wrist. He spat again into his hand, slicked his length full, and then with eyes pressed shut so that only the thought of her - yes, bent over the table, he was no better than that, he was no better than reducing her to that - filled his mind. And it was a frenzied freedom of relief his wretched mind took liberties with, so that in moments it wasn’t just her bent over the table, it was her leggings pulled under the curve of her ass, his hands cupping the softness of her full in his palms, her legs spreading, and wet and splayed she glanced back over her shoulder and pierced him with that sly look, and she spat at him through bared teeth, _“Good.”_

Groans cut through his labored breathing. He pulled - pulled - pulled… and quickly scrambled to his knees to direct his spill onto the ramparts, first shuddering through the full-body stiffness, his spend shooting up and out and slapping shamefully to the stone of his ancient fortress. Then he guided the rest of his release from the hot tightness beneath his cock and tremored, his other wrist clenched between his teeth to stifle his sounds.

When he had finished, he stared at the evidence of his debased indulgence. Sounds from the yard far down the wall came back to his hearing. He hoped that no one had heard him, listened. It seemed not - had he made much noise? He adjusted his breeches. Resolved to forget he had ever pictured her like that, that he had ever twisted the truth of her like that in his mind.

He settled back against the wall again, loose, breathing deeply, staring in disgust at the evidence of what he’d just done.

The ramparts were cool against the back of his head.

His headache had lifted.

He closed his eyes. Refused to think of her. 

Refused to think of anything. 

Finally, slept.


End file.
